


Snow Days In July

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Caring Dean Winchester, Childhood, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8917309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: While organizing the bunker's storages, Sam touches a cursed object. The aftermath isn't quite what either of the brothers expected - but for Dean, it comes like a much-needed vacation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another commission. :> I've just learned the hard way that keeping a deaging story brief is exactly the opposite of my comfort zone. Remember what happened with the last one? Um, anyway. Here's the second one.
> 
> Special appearance by and quote from Jack London's _Call of the Wild_ , which is a great book and if you haven't, you should definitely give it a try - it's available for free on iTunes Store. A little self-indulgent, as Jack London was my favourite writer as a child. I feel like his dog stories would hit a soft spot in Sam, too.

* * *

 

Sam's bedroom is quiet and clean. Too quiet and clean for Dean, really; it hardly looks lived-in, if not for the few books scattered here and there on the table, the bedside table and even next to the bed where he assumes the book fell as he carried Sam back in his bed. The older brother rubs at his hand nervously as he sits beside his brother, now very small and pale despite the blush upon his round cheeks. As Dean watches him, his eyes slowly begin to move underneath his closed lids, and finally they open, unfocused as they are.

Dean reaches his hand in and brushes Sam's long hair off his features. His eyes meet his brother's green-and-gold hazel ones, and he smiles a little, even though it's a nervous smile: he's not entirely sure how to present the situation to him.

"Hey, Sammy," he says as he lifts his hand and returns it on his lap, "There's - uh, good news and bad news. I'm gonna go with the bad news first, before you move, alright? Just don't, don't, uh. Don't panic. Promise me."

Slowly, Sam nods. He tries to lift himself up from the bed but his arms tremble and he seems rather weak and feverish, so he settles back in soon and sniffs idly, eyes starting to finally focus over Dean's features.

"Okay, so, an hour or so ago, we were lifting some boxes in the storage. Remember?"

Sam nods again, and Dean's chest fills with relief. He nods, too, before continuing.

"Alright - okay. The ladder broke underneath you and you dropped the box you were lifting, nothing major, except that the stuff inside went all over the floor. And we started gathering it up, but when you touched... there was that creepy-looking teddy bear, right? You picked it up, and then you blacked out. The bad news is, um, that was a cursed object. It had a curse-proof box _inside_ the box that you dropped, which broke when it hit the floor, and neither of us noticed that, because, hey, who would have thought the Men of Letters shoved a cursed object inside an innocent-looking box, right? Well, uh, they did. And the _real_ bad news is that... you got whacked with the curse."

Sam's eyes widen slightly: he looks nervous and tries to pull up again. This time he's succesful, and Dean can see how he's starting to piece the full picture together in his dazed mind. He swallows - he's got to hurry to deliver the news before they really, really hit in hard.

"The good news is," he carries on a little faster than before, "that it's nothing bad. It's not like a killing curse or anything. It's a prank curse, really. So - you got pranked. And to me, it's kinda funny, because - I know you're gonna be back to normal in a couple days. That's the really good news: it'll lift in three, four days max. It's not dangerous. But, uh, yeah. I don't know how else to put this, Sam, so I'll just say it as it is: you're a kid. You'll be a kid for up to four days. And - and that's about it."

There's a stillness between them, through which Sam's head slowly turns down as his gaze moves to his small feet, his pudgy, short legs and his tiny hands that he moves in front of him, trembling as he does so. He drags in a sharp breath, and Dean catches the first hint of his childish voice through it, but before he's managed to so much as process that information, Sam's out of the bed. He's stumbling a little, legs weak as he moves ahead, but he's heading directly for his dusty full-body mirror beside his clothes drawer; Dean doesn't know if he should be following, but he stands up from the bed regardless and wanders after the boy. He's not sure about many things, in fact. For example, whether the mind inside his brother's tiny body is the same as it was an hour ago, or if it, too, has reverted back to a younger state. Much hangs in the air, idly but feeling heavy as a dark cloud about to rain down as he kneels beside Sam and examines the image in the mirror together with him.

He's short and round with cherub-like baby pink lips and wide eyes surrounded by dark lashes. His hair curls wildly, reaching almost up to his shoulders just like his adult self's, and his nose is still pointy although a lot shorter than before. He's got a small, round chin and puffy cheeks, and a tiny dark spot next to his nose where his mole is, and he's wearing the only child-size shirt that Dean could dig up in the bunker: it's yellowed cotton and hangs well over Sam's small fists. He smells like a combination of antique clothing and baby scent, and as Dean's still looking over him, his small fingers bend into Dean's shirt and he sniffles and stumbles backwards onto Dean. Instinctively, Dean wraps an arm around him and holds him close, feeling Sam's heart drum wildly against his chest.

"'s not that bad," Dean tells him, "Like I said, it'll just be a couple days. Completely harmless. You've always trusted the information the Men of Letters before us gathered, right? There was a note with the teddy. It said max four days, maybe three, and it could be even less, right? We don't know that yet. But max four days, and that's all, Sammy. Then you'll be back to normal, no side-effects. 's gonna be alright."

Sam's fist tightens around the fabric of Dean's flannel. He tugs at it and nuzzles closer, his breath hitching. Dean looks at him through the mirror and grimaces a little, his hand moving up to Sam's and twisting it out of his clothes. His own fist wraps around it and holds it.

"Say something, kiddo. Anything. Don't wanna pinch you."

A shaky breath escapes Sam and he shakes his head.

"Alright," Dean sighs, "Alright. Good enough. Let's get a cup of something hot in you, maybe that'll help unwrap your tongue."

 

* * *

 

He's freaked out, too. It was bad when he saw Sam changing, his body seeming to wither away underneath his clothes, turning smaller and smaller as his expression stayed as void as ever, his eyes closed and his lips barely parted. He couldn't tell if Sam was breathing, and for a moment, his own vision was blacking out from panic: the next thing he knew, he'd shoved the teddy inside the curse-locked box with his rubber gloves on and hammered the lock closed, as if he could somehow undo the curse that had already hit his brother. That was when he first noticed the yellow note with neatly written lines upon it, but it wasn't quite yet that he'd read it. First, he had to dig out his now very small little brother from underneath the layers of clothing he'd previously worn, very much naked inside a very large black v-neck shirt, and only as he cradled that small child against him could he finally reach for the note. With every sentence after the category and the type of the item, his worry was soothed, but never completely wiped away: with Sam, there can never be a compromise, and settling for someone else's word is never good enough.

Next, he unwrapped the v-neck from around Sam and changed him into that one and only child's shirt he could find, making sure with each and every moment that the boy was still breathing and merely unconscious, not dying, not losing vitality, not draining away. By the time he'd gotten him in the bed, however, his mind had stopped racing, and his heart was only aching so much.

Now everything seems to be alright, as promised to him by the ghosts of men who'd walked these halls before them, and the only thing that matters is that things will continue to be alright... and how the two of them will cope while waiting for the curse to wear out.

Sam's still silent as he drinks warm milk through a straw. It's the best Dean's got to offer; he figures the kid can't drink a beer to calm down, and they've hardly got anything else fitting for the purpose. Coke might do it, but he'd promised it'd be warm, and at least milk can be microwaved; it boiled over a little, but Sam doesn't seem to mind the sticky cup. His eyes search around the room restlessly, but he seems to avoid looking directly at Dean at all costs. Dean wishes he wouldn't - he wishes he'd talk, but he's been there before. Things like this, sudden changes, trauma, scary situations of all sorts, they can render a kid speechless. He tries to give Sam space instead in the hopes that it'll encourage him to loosen up a little.

"You know," Dean tells him with a small, forced chuckle, "We've gotta find you some new clothes, right?"

Sam glances at him very quickly, then, as he's already looking away, he nods almost unnoticeably. Dean sighs silently out of relief: it's the second real sign of communication between them since the incident, and it's already been forty minutes since Sam woke up.

"A few days, huh. So that means you need a couple pairs of underwear, two shirts, two pairs of pants or whatever, some socks... Maybe we can give them up for charity after you're back to your usual, humongous self. Or sell them on eBay, since you love that site so much."

Sam gives him another glance, this one slightly judgemental; he lets out a puffing sigh, then blows a few bubbles into his milk. After a minutes, his lips unwrap from around the straw and he moves the mug away from him.

"I don't like it," he says then.

"Huh?" Dean manages to reply; it takes a long while for the message to sink in, as all he has capacity for is acknowledging that Sam's finally speaking again, "You don't like what?"

Sam pokes the mug with pursed lips and an unhappy expression on his features. Dean blinks, staring at the milk.

"Right," he finally says, dragging the word, "The milk. Right. Well, it's not - exactly really tasty, is it."

Sam shakes his head. As Dean watches him, he's quite certain the _milk_ isn't the thing that's bothering Sam, but maybe this is the only way he can express how he feels right now: by blaming the milk for tasting bad.

"Okay," Dean carries on after a while, "You don't have to drink it. Are you hungry? Need anything else? Bathroom, a nap, something?"

Sam shakes his head again.

"Do you wanna hop in the car with me when I go shop for some clothes? I can't leave you here alone."

Their eyes meet and Dean watches Sam ponder it over for a good while. Then, finally, the boy nods and slips off the chair. He walks to Dean and latches onto him again, holding his flannel with both hands this time. Dean moves his palm over Sam's back and rubs him gently, looking down at him. He's not sure how old Sam could be now, but he looks and acts like he's barely above five, and he's clearly still in shock. A small smile vibrates over Dean's lips even though inside he feels quite hollow: this isn't the first time he sees Sam like this. He remembers it, remembers him getting caught in situations he didn't quite yet understand, and how John was there for them both afterwards. Now it's just him, but this is still his brother, the same brother he raised and comforted throughout his first childhood. He knows his way around Sam's fears.

Sam makes a face as Dean pats him between his shoulder blades, his dimples growing visible and his fists balling up in Dean's flannel as if he's making a point of not letting go.

"Come on," Dean mumbles, his fingers charging up Sam's long hair and rubbing the top of his head briefly, "Let's find you a nice, big blanket you can wrap around yourself until you've got some pants to put on, okay?"

 

* * *

 

It feels awful to leave Sam inside the Impala alone. Bright July sunlight pours down from the deep-blue sky like it's decided to scorch and burn the entirety of Kansas in a single afternoon, but Dean parks the car underneath a big tree in the hopes of the temperature not growing unbearable while he's inside the clothing store. He locks the doors but leaves the windows slightly open, and Sam immediately latches onto the window from the inside looking scared and pitiful as Dean starts backing away. He has to come back right away, and once he's there, he pushes his fingers inside through the gap he'd left there for ventilation.

"I'll be back in ten minutes tops," he tells his brother, "just sit tight, it won't be long. I promise."

He can't get a heatstroke in such a short time, but Dean's heart won't stop aching once he's turned his back to Sam. He makes his way through the store in a few long steps, pickpocketing a pack of socks as he swipes some underpants off the shelf and adds them to his basket. He can't decide what Sam's size should be, so he buys big to be certain - they're not going anywhere public, anyway, not with Sam like this. He'll just have to look like he's still wearing handovers. It's not like it's the first time for him, either. There's a mom with a semi-audibly sobbing baby in the queue in front of Dean, and the entire two minutes that it takes for the cashier to ring up her items, he's shifting weight from leg to leg barely able to contain himself there. All he wants to do is go back to Sam and make sure he's alright, that he's safe; leaving him alone has never felt worse than it does now.

 _Whoever said that cataloguing was a safe job_ , he finds himself thinking as he steps to the counter.  
As the cashier grants him a frown, he realises he's grimacing like shopping is physically painful for him. He tries to turn his grimace into a smile, but fails miserably; he thanks her in a muffled voice, slides the bag off the counter and jogs back to the car.

Sam's intact and sitting there with his knuckles between his teeth. He's watching a pair of birds in the tree above him as Dean approaches and makes a sound when his brother scares them away.

"Everything alright?" Dean asks him, placing the store's bag on the front seat between them.

"Yeah," Sam tells him in a timid voice, "Birds."

"Yeah, I saw them. Look, buddy. Let's put some pants on you and change you out of that thing."  
Dean lifts the shirt on Sam and chuckles wearily.  
"I'm not sure if this was ever meant for people to wear. Maybe it's a doll shirt. I don't know. At least it wasn't cursed."

Sam wriggles out of the shirt and sighs. He watches keenly as Dean digs out new clothes from inside the bag, bites off the tags and offers the rest to Sam: they put them on together, then sit there in silence for a moment as Sam examines his new shirt by trailing his fingers along the hem and tugging at it a little.

"Dean?" he asks then, not lifting his gaze.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean's brows jump up.  
"Sorry for what?"

"For - 't was stupid. I picked up the thing and I didn't know what it was."

"It wasn't marked, Sammy. It wasn't in a lockbox anymore, either. You couldn't have known. I'm just happy it did this and - and nothing worse, really," Dean offers, picking up Sam's new shirt's short sleeve between his index finger and thumb and straightening it idly as he speaks.

Sam nods slowly. He keeps picking at his shirt for a little bit longer before looking at Dean and smiling tiredly.  
"I feel weird. Don't feel like talking much."

Somehow, it seems like the single most relieving sentence that Dean could have hoped to get out of him.

"Doesn't matter, Sammy. I'm just glad you're okay. Can you - describe how you feel weird?"

Sam shrugs.  
"Just - weird. In my head."

"Okay. Not sick or anything, right?"

Sam shakes his head, and Dean holds his shoulder for a while before turning the keys and sending the car purring underneath them.

"Wanna come buy some groceries with me now that you're wearing clothes?"

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

Back home, Dean cooks for them. Sam refuses to leave his side, holding onto his pantleg or his sleeve the entire time until Dean fetches a chair for him. He sits there, watching keenly as Dean prepares a sauce and boils some potatoes for them. The only time he speaks up is when he asks if they could have peas with the food - Dean suspects it simply didn't look green enough for his brother the way it was. He puts together a cupful of peas and carrots for them, then takes Sam's hand and leads him back to the war room, and they eat there together. Sam still doesn't talk much, but he's smiling sometimes at least when Dean catches him watching.

"Does your head still feel weird, Sammy?" Dean asks him after they've eaten, both of them still just sitting there working through the meal.

Sam nods thoughtfully.  
"'s like it's really heavy," he says then, frowning to the effort of trying to describe the sensation, "Like there's too much inside."

"Alright. Is it, like, thoughts or - or like water or something?"

"Thoughts."

"Okay. Well, I think that's gonna pass eventually. I mean - I've told you before, you think too much. So just - let it sort itself out, alright? You'll feel better in a while."

Sam smiles. He draws some squiggly lines onto the table with his fingertips, nips at his lower lip and then looks away.  
"I'm tired," he says then.

"Oh," Dean replies dumbly, "Oh, alright - I mean - you could take a nap."

"I want to read something."

"Well, we have the Oz books, and I think Alice in Wonderland, some classics."

"I found. Mm. I found - _Call of the Wild_ the other day. I wanted to read. That."

"Really?"

Sam nods.

"Should we, um. Should we try reading it together? Jack London, right?"

Sam nods again. He smiles brightly when he looks at Dean.  
"Bring it back to my room, alright?" he says, slides off of the chair and rushes off.

His socks slide on the bunker's floors and he huffs intently on the way out of the door. Dean watches the empty doorway for a little while after he's vanished through it before chuckling wearily: he picks up their dirty dishes and brings them to the kitchen, rinses them and then leaves them in a pile to wait for a better moment. The rest of the food he hides in the fridge before heading to the library. It doesn't take long to locate the section for fiction books written by authors whose last names begin with L, but spotting the thin, rugged-looking book in the midst of the heavy tomes is a different thing altogether. The size of it surprises Dean when he pulls it out, but of course, it's not a long book. They should get through it in just a few sessions, should Sam still be interested in it after his nap.

He follows the boy's invisible trail through the corridor to his room, where the door's slightly ajar and Sam's sitting on his bed, his gaze jumping up the moment Dean enters. Dean waves the book to show it to him and Sam nods eagerly: he pulls up his blanket and rests it on top of his lap.

"Is this alright?" he asks then, when Dean's about to settle beside him.

"What?"

"This. Reading together. I - I think- I think I need help with it. I can't really... I can make out some words but not that many."

Dean smiles. He opens the book and examines it for a bit to sort through his own emotions before nodding.  
"Sure it is, Sammy. We've done this before, remember?"

Sam looks at him, his eyes wide and clear.  
"But that was before," he says quietly, "Before when I was small."

Dean looks at him and chuckles. He runs his fingers through Sam's hair and untangles a few knots in them, watching him and his small, round features; he's missed them. Missed his _baby_ baby brother. He retreats his hand and sighs a little.

"You're small again now, Sammy. I feel like you've earned the right to some reading assistance. Look, if you want, I can do this on my own - just settle in and close your eyes and I'll read the story to you."

Sam shakes his head and scoots closer up to Dean. He nuzzles up against Dean's side and sniffs.  
"I wanna do it myself," he tells Dean and pulls the book closer, "Just need some help, 's all."

Of course he does, Dean thinks amusedly. Sam's always been too independent for his own good.

"Alright, then. You wanna start, kid?"

Sam nods.  
"Yeah. Help me with the big words."

"Sure."

 

* * *

 

They read the story onwards slowly all the way until Buck's journey on the train, at which point Sam finally curls up and lets Dean continue on for a little bit further alone. He falls asleep quietly, and Dean lowers the book on his lap and watches him for a while with a crooked smile on him. Yeah, everything seems to be in order: the feverish look has faded away, and Sam looks a healthy colour now. He sleeps quietly and Dean leaves him for a while to go wash the dishes instead. Then he comes back, and thinking that it'll only be a little while before he'll wake up his brother, he rests his head beside Sam - the next thing he knows, it's Sam waking him up with a small smile on his lips.

"You fell asleep," Sam tells him with a soft voice, still nudging him on the shoulder even though Dean's peering at him through one open eye.

"Mm-hmm."

"You did."

"Yeah," Dean admits, "Think I did."

He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, peering at Sam's alarm clock; it shows 7pm. It'll be a late night for them both, it seems.

"Sammy, hey."

"Yeah?"

Dean peers at Sam and chuckles quietly before a yawn breaks through and his eyes water; he wipes them clear again and stares at the wall for a moment.  
"What if we do this the old way. Like when we were kids, right?"

"Do what?" Sam asks curiously, crawling closer.  
He wrestles his hands idly on his lap as Dean turns to look at him, grinning.

"We go buy some ice cream and maybe pie if we can find some," Dean explains, "then pretend we're renting a film and watch something on Netflix instead, because we're already paying for Netflix and I'm not going to pay for a rental on top of that when we could just - you know. How's that sound?"

Sam smiles widely, nodding.  
"That'd be cool," he says, and Dean nods.

"Yeah, I think so too."

They get back in the Impala. The sun's slowly crawling towards the horizon, and the early evening paints the world a shade of gold. It's not blazing yet, but instead it looks soft and welcoming: Dean rests his eyes on the scenery every chance he gets, and Sam seems content beside him doing the same. The journey to the nearest grocery store takes them only a few minutes, and they come out quickly enough. On the drive home, Sam holds their bag as if guarding it - he looks important doing that, like he's got a job that he's been entrusted with.

It's only three movies later that the kid starts feeling tired again, and even after then Dean's still up, planning the next day in advance. He sits by the table drinking some peppermint tea that Sam's hoarded up in their cupboards, one of his health quirks as he's sworn to replace his caffeine with green teas in the evening for better sleep - Dean would never admit it to his brother, but he's started doing the same after noticing that Sam really does seem more refreshed in the mornings when caffeine doesn't keep him awake most of the night. And maybe Sam's noticed it by now, but out of courtesy he hasn't told Dean or even made fun of him for it, at least not yet: he can be kind sometimes, where Dean would hardly ever miss out on an opportunity to laugh and say "told you so" if Sam gave him the chance.

Now, with the cup in front of him and its bland yet sweet taste lingering on Dean's tongue, the older brother's mind is running through the things they used to do as children and then couldn't do anymore, or some that they never really felt like it was the right time for after growing up. From there, his mind turns to things they simply never really did to begin with, and he matches those things with a mental map of the surrounding areas, the venues, the stores and parks. Finally, he settles on one specific thing he wants to do tomorrow: he wants to go swimming.

 

* * *

 

A flash of light parts the darkness. It wakes Dean up with a jolt, and he's almost reaching for his gun when he realises what the light is: it's the flashlight of an iPhone, and it's in the hands of a small child. Sam closes the door quietly as Dean reaches for the bedside table and turns on the light. He looks at the kid with puffy, sleepy eyes and squints, trying to figure out why Sam's there to begin with, but at least he's awake enough to not question him being so tiny.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" he asks, confused and audibly tired.  
  
Sam looks down at his huge phone and shakes it dejectedly, turning the light off. He keeps staring at the blank screen and sniffs a little as Dean watches him, waiting.  
  
"Sammy?"

"Don't wanna be alone," Sam mumbles to his phone, and Dean realises his voice is exactly as sleepy as his own, "'s scary and dark and there's sounds and... stuff."

"Oh."  
Dean grabs the blanket and bundles it against his thigh, then pats the revealed spot on the mattress.  
"Wanna have a sleepover?"

Sam glances at him and looks at the spot with thinly veiled longing. Then he glances at Dean again, turns his gaze away and nods swiftly.

"Climb in."

He does, and Dean throws the blanket over him. He gives Sam the pillow from under his head and rests his own head over his bare arm, watching the boy curl up looking sullen and upset.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asks with an inviting smile, and Sam seems to consider it for a moment before shaking his head and sniffing again.  
"Alright. Turn off the light. I'm right here, Sammy, it won't be scary anymore."

Sam nods and reaches for the light. After it's gone only a slowly shifting green spot lingers in the darkness in its place, and Dean closes his eyes, seeking out Sam's hand with his own under the blanket. He finds it and wraps his fingers around it, closing the entire thing inside his grip: Sam's hand is tiny, but in a moment's time he's holding Dean's hand, too.

For a long while, they both are quiet, and Dean's quickly drifting back to sleep when Sam finally speaks again.

"Everything suddenly seems really big and scary," Sam whispers into the dark.

Dean peers blindly in his direction, listening to his huffy breaths and the sounds of him shifting around every now and then. Sam's knee knocks into his arm: he's so small that he can reach Dean's elbow with his toes while curled up like this, and he doesn't even have to try.

"Maybe it's because you're suddenly so small?" Dean offers with a warm but a little teasing tone in his voice.

Sam scoffs.  
"I don't like it."

"I bet you don't, big guy. You're a bit of a control freak."

"Mm. 's just - I know what's out there. And it's scary. What if it gets me?"

"Nothing's gonna get you here, Sammy. We're home. You know home's the safest place ever, right?"

Dean can hear the smile on Sam's lips, as if something in the sound of his breathing changes with it. Sam hesitates a while before nodding, his cheek rubbing against the pillow in a brief brush.

"But still," he says then, sounding concerned again, "I don't - like this. I feel useless."

"It's because you are useless," Dean tells him with a warm chuckle and nudges his nose in the dark, making him jump a little, "and that's kind of the whole point. Enjoy it, Sammy. No responsibilities, no chores unless you want to do them, no work, and best of all, your big brother's right here to take care of you and make sure that nothing gets the jump on you. Trust me, Sam, this is good. This can be really, really fun. Just take it like that, alright?"

"How can this be _fun_ to you?" Sam asks, sounding a little exasperated, a tone which sounds hilarious in his tiny voice.

"Because I've got the right attitude," Dean tells him with a huff, "Let me tell you why, Sam. Look at it this way: we can't help this. The thing with the teddy happened, and you're a tiny little thing all over again because of it. There's no cure, so we'll just have to wait it out. Why not have fun with it? We can't change it, we can't fix it - why not enjoy it?"

There's a long silence, and Dean almost wishes that that would be it, that they could sleep now and wake up tomorrow with Sam's attitude changed. But it's not that easy, and he knows it. Finally, Sam gives him an answer.

"Can we really, really do that? Is that - okay?" he asks a bit breathlessly.

Dean brushes his fingers over Sam's cheek and nods.  
"Sure we can, Sammy. 's just a couple days, nothing's gonna break if we take it easy for now."

"And that's alright?"

"Yep."

"Hmm."

Dean smiles. He closes his eyes and holds Sam's hand tighter in his.

"Get some sleep, buddy."

In a minute or so, Sam leans in: Dean feels the boy's soft lips press against his cheek and he smiles, blushing with surprise.

"Good night, Dean," Sam mumbles, settling in to sleep.

Dean looks into his direction, then gathers up his courage and does the same for him: he kisses him on the forehead, lips lingering there to feel the soft warmth of his skin and so that the baby-scented air fills up his nose before he finally pulls back and lowers his head back over his arm.

"Night, Sammy," he speaks quietly, hearing Sam sigh softly in response.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up first in the morning. It takes him a moment to locate himself, and a moment longer to understand what the warm bundle beside him is, but when he remembers, he relaxes back onto the mattress and a smile spreads over his lips. The warm glow of his wake-up light is shining a dim golden light into the room, painting it with the gentle imitation of the sunrise outside: he's used to waking up to it by now. With the bunker underground, real sunsets aren't an option - it took him a while to realise that he missed them, that his body missed the natural alarm he grew up with, but after he bought the lamp, something just fell in its rightful place. Sam, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind the growing light in the room. He's sleeping soundlessly, small hands bundled up in Dean's t-shirt, and Dean undoes them gently after a while of just staring at the ceiling and smiling like an idiot.

This one feels like a good day to wake up to.

Quietly, he pulls on his sweatpants and sneaks out of the room and into the corridor. He's determined to have some bacon baking by the time he's waking Sam up, and he's determined to be the one waking him up, too - Sam never sleeps that long, hardly ever longer than Dean. With a nap behind him the other night, even with the night fright that caused him to relocate into Dean's bedroom? He's not going to be out much longer.

Dean cooks bacon for one and a half men, about the same as usual: Sam's a light eater, always been. Making coffee for just one is the odd part, and Dean remembers it only after already pouring in water for two. He leaves it there; at least this time it's not going to run out before he's had his fill. Sam's not having any, either way. Not if Dean can help it. For Sam, just a glass of milk will have to do.

With the bacon stirring quietly on the low-heat pan, Dean returns to his bedroom and sits beside his sleeping brother. He brushes his hand over Sam's cheek and forehead and into his silky curls, and Sam scrunches up his nose, peering sleepily at Dean who smiles back at him and nods.

"G'morning, Sammy."

"Mmbl."

"Huh?"

"Morning," Sam repeats with a smile.

He closes his eyes and sighs quietly before pulling up and stretching with a large yawn.

"I made some breakfast, if you're hungry," Dean tells him, still watching him with a soft expression, one that he hardly recognises as his own.

Sam glances at him and his smile widens.  
"What is it?"

"Bacon. The usual."

"Cool."

Dean shrugs and stands up. He holds out his hand and drags Sam out of the bed as well: their hands stay joined as they leave the room, with Sam wearing nothing but his long t-shirt and a pair of black undies.

"I've got something planned for today," Dean tells him in a conspiratory voice, "So once you've eaten, go pack up towels for two, alright?"

"Towels?" Sam repeats with a frown.  
He climbs onto his seat and picks up his fork, but doesn't start eating yet; he's watching Dean with a curious, if a little suspicious, expression on him.

Dean nods as he, too, sits down by his breakfast.  
"You'll love it," he promises.

Sam flashes an uncertain smile before stuffing his mouth with crispy bacon.  
"Okay," he says muffledly through it all, and Dean chuckles, following his lead.

 

* * *

 

Once again they sit inside the Impala, steering down a dusty, summer-scorched Kansas road through a flat scenery of fields and grassland. Sam's playing on his phone: he's found some quiz on ancient Egypt that looks like it's designed for six years olds, but as long as he's making the drive easier for himself, Dean doesn't mind. He remembers how it felt like to be trapped inside a car on a day this hot back when they were still running with John; it could take hours to an unknown destination, and they didn't have phones back then to waste the time with. They'd listen to music together, unless John was in one of those moods where he needed silence to work a case or just through his own thoughts; on those times, they either stared quietly out the windows at the passing sceneries or shared the single pair of headphones they owned the best they could, and bickered silently over which radio station to plug into. The radio was hard and barely fit between them on the backseat, but it worked, at least as long as it had battery power - when that, too, died out, they had nothing but the sound of the Impala's engine purring underneath them and the endless road ahead towards yet another motel.

This time, they're not headed for a motel. Dean turns for a little used, unpaved road leading down a gentle hill towards a patch of trees and a steady river glimmering in the sunlight. If he remembers right, there's a beach nearby here, and the water's not too deep. He cranes his neck to see it before they stop, with Sam now perked up and watching keenly as well, but he's definitely right - the beach is made of rounded stones and leads easy into the water. The car comes to a halt and Dean turns to Sam, grinning.

"Wanna go swimming?" he asks breathlessly, and Sam stares at him, wide-eyed.

"Really?"

"We haven't been in years. Thought we could," Dean tells him and feels a shiver rush through his spine.  
God, he wishes that Sam will like this. Suddenly, he's not so sure. But Sam loves nature - it's _Sam,_ for heaven's sake. The kid loves exercise and playing outdoors. He's got to love this, too.

Finally, Sam's face brightens up. And keeps brightening. He smiles, gasps and turns towards the water, already making his way out of the seatbelt he's started to wear without Dean so much as suggesting it first. Then he's already out the door, dragging the heavy bag off the seat with him. Dean sighs out of relief and steps out the driver's side door, crosses around the car and catches the bag from Sam.

"Easy," he tells him as he hauls the bag on his shoulder, "We've gotta make sure it's good to go first. That it's not too deep and it doesn't have a strong current, you know. You're pretty small."

Sam nods, but Dean's not sure he's listening. Together, they walk down the road and there's even a small, rusted up sign telling them that it's a swimming beach - or was, probably in the 80s when they were around Sam's current age for real - and finally stop near where the pebbles get wet. Dean sets the bag down and pulls out a big blanket, the biggest he could find; it's a little stained from sitting in the car for years, but it's good enough to sit on, and that's exactly what they're going to be doing with it. Then he picks up the two towels that Sam packed for them. Underneath them, there's a plastic bag with a couple cans of coke inside, and a few sandwiches he made for them before they left the bunker: it's all that they need, minus the sunscreen that they just didn't have. Dean glances up at the clear, deep blue sky and shades his vision from the sun.

Hopefully Sam's still tan enough to not burn, he thinks with a grimace.

"Alright," he says then, "Let's check the water."

"I don't have any clothes," Sam says suddenly, sounding depressed.

"Huh?" Dean says, looking at him; "You don't need clothes to swim. Just take off the unnecessary stuff and go in your underwear. You'll just take them off afterwards, put your pants and shirt back on, and you'll be good to go. It's not rocket science, kiddo."

He watches Sam's doubts wash away and laughs a little as he bends down to pull up his pantlegs to keep them out of the water.

"C'mon, let's take a tour," he says and pulls off his shoes.

The water's refreshing over his sweaty toes. It's cool and clear and the bottom is easy on the feet with all of the stones more or less even under his weight, and for Sam, the current's non-existent enough to not push him over. It takes a long while for the river to get deeper, and Dean sighs out of relief: it seems like the least dangerous spot he could have chosen for his tiny brother to enjoy, and makes his job of sitting on the beach enjoying the view a lot easier. That said, he's not so certain he wants to do that anymore. In the water, he kinda misses how it felt to play in it - to swim, even. Kinda misses the whole beach day thing that they only ever did once or twice in their entire lives. There simply was never enough time: of course, sometimes they parked by a swimming place, and they would go in the water while John was drinking or fixing the car or whatever it was they were there for to begin with. But it was never long, and they could never really swim outside the times John took them to specifically practice it, and while it was fun, alright, it was never quite the same as just... being there for _fun_.

Without thinking about it further, Dean walks back on the beach with Sam attached to his arm, and he discards his clothes in a pile with Sam's so that they're both in their boxer-briefs, standing there against the glimmering water's surface and looking at each other.

"Ready to dip in?" Dean asks Sam, grinning.

Sam nods enthusiastically.

"Let's do it."

 

* * *

 

They play in the water for an hour together, and after some time, Dean even dares to take Sam deeper with him. He's always holding Sam up - in his current form, he's far from a good swimmer with his short limbs and lacking motor skills - but he's staying above surface just fine, as long as Dean's there to hold some part of him. They never go far from where at least Dean's legs find the bottom, but the thrill of going in that deep seems to excite Sam a lot, so they just keep doing it. Sometimes Sam takes a dive, with Dean always keeping his hands on his brother's body to make sure he doesn't disappear. Not that he could, really; the water's relatively clear and the sun is reflecting from Sam's skin, making him fairly obvious even under the surface. Still, every time he goes under Dean feels himself holding his breath, as if certain something bad will happen: his heart races even as he pulls Sam back up and they both laugh, Sam out of joy and Dean out of relief.

After that hour, Dean returns to the beach, dries up and sits on the blanket set there for them and their sandwiches. When he's left, Sam starts rushing up and down the shoreline, picking up sticks and other things to send out to the river: he watches them float away, then charges after them to pick them up and send them back over and and over again, and it seems endlessly exciting to him, like he's building up an armada and watching his ships sail for victory before his very eyes. Sometimes they go so far that the water reaches Sam's waist or even above, but he always returns from his journeys reliably back to safety, and Dean never has to rush in after him to make sure he doesn't lose his footing. There are no cars passing by, and no sign of civilization aside a farmhouse far in the distance, only visible if Dean walks back to the car and squints at the horizon, and Dean prefers it that way. This feels like it should be between the two of them. A more crowded beach, even a swimming hall - it just wouldn't be the same.

Finally Sam crawls out of the water and plops down on the blanket.

"I'm hungry," he tells Dean and peers curiously into the bag sitting between them.

Dean unfolds the towel and runs it through Sam's hair, rubs it over his upper torso and then wraps it around his shoulders. Then he nods with a small sound and pulls out a plastic box holding three sandwiches inside: he gives one to Sam and takes one himself before digging out the cokes and splitting them between them as well.

"Well?" he asks, biting into his cheese-and-leftover-bacon sandwich, eyes on Sam who's nibbling at his own already.

Sam glances at him, then turns his gaze away and smiles happily. Blush spreads over his plump cheeks and he nudges himself on the knee, then turns to picking at his toes instead.

"I like it," he says.

"I knew you'd like it," Dean laughs, feeling happier than he's perhaps felt in years, "So, am I the best big brother ever or what?"

"Don't tease."

"I'm not teasing. I just wanna hear it, Sammy. C'mon, you owe me."

Sam lets out a long, dramatic sigh. He bites a mouthful off his sandwich and chews through it, then swallows and looks up at the river. It still takes him a long while to speak.

"Fine," he finally says and looks back at Dean, grinning, "You're the best."

"That's my boy," Dean chuckles and downs a gulp of warm coke.

 

* * *

 

After eating, Sam goes back in the river for thirty minutes or so. Then he climbs out again, a little shaky from the cold and exhaustion, and he smiles wearily at Dean and sits next to him on the blanket again. Dean wraps him up in the towel and draws him close so that he's resting against his side, and together, they fall on their backs to watch the sky above.

"It's funny," Dean mumbles as his fingers sort through Sam's wet hair, "That life can be like this, too."

Sam nods.  
"I like it."

"I know, right? It's - it's simple and good. Just the two of us and the world, nothing bad happening, nothing scary going on. Just... a couple of brothers."

"Dean."

"Mm? Yeah?"

Sam turns on his side and brings his short arm over Dean's tummy. He looks him in the eye and smiles a little.  
"I like you," he says, and his voice is full of intent, "I really, really like you."

Dean feels his cheeks flaring up and he grins and looks awkwardly back at the blue, sunny sky above. A couple clouds are drifting by. He breathes quietly for a bit before wiping a phantom itch off his nose and pointing at the sky.

"That cloud looks just like a rabbit, doesn't it?" he asks, ears hot.

Sam glances up.  
"Mm. But Dean."

"Yeah?"

"You didn't say anything."

"I didn't. I don't - really know what to say to that, Sammy. You know me."

Sam's dimples grow deeper as he pouts a little. Then a sigh escapes him, a rather amused one; he rolls back on his back and looks at the sky with Dean.  
"Yeah," he says, "I know. But it'd still - it's still nice to hear it sometimes."

"I like you, too. You're, um."

"Yeah?"  
And Sam's looking at him again. It makes speaking harder, but damn, he's just a child; it shouldn't be so hard to tell this to a child. So Dean looks back at him and he smiles and nods.

"You're my best friend," he says then, "Not just - my brother or anything. I really - like you, I trust you, and - and I know you're gonna stick around with me 'til the end. It's a nice feeling. I... I don't know, Sammy, it's - I'm bad with words, heh. I just, yeah."

He brushes off a strand of hair from Sam's face and grins awkwardly.

"You're the best, worst little brother I could hope for. Annoying, messy, smelly, but also - you're loyal, you're honest, you're - a lot better with words than I'll ever be, and whenever I feel like I don't know where to go, I know I can count on you. You know?"

Sam nods again. He's smiling, and his smile's content and warm when he turns towards the sky: they're both quiet for a long time, but there really isn't anything more to say. It's all there, for the first time in years.

"I think it looks more like a kangaroo," Sam finally says, "Bunnies have bigger heads."

"Think you're right," Dean admits, "But the one to the left is definitely a whale."

"A blue whale."

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

Sam sleeps on the way back. He's wearing dry clothes again, and he's leaning his head against the slightly wet towel to keep his hair from dripping all over the leather seats, and he's fast asleep so that not even the bumpy road can get him to wake up again. Dean drives slowly: he loves the feeling of this, the unfamiliar joy of returning from a nice trip, and the calm that his brother radiates beside him. He can't stop smiling, not even as the car dives inside the bunker again and the bright, sunny day closes up behind them. Gently, he shakes Sam awake, and together they head for the shower to wash off whatever gross caught onto them - or mainly Sam - from the river. Afterwards, Dean cooks again; Sam's there with him, sitting on the counter and helping him around by pouring cream and spices into the food as Dean's stirring and telling him what to do.

After eating, Sam leads Dean back into his bedroom.

"Can you read to me?" he asks, and a yawn breaks through as he finishes the sentence.  
He crawls under his blanket and sits to wait for Dean, and Dean settles beside him, picking up the book from yesterday from the bedside table.

"Sure I can."

He tucks Sam in and catches up where they left off before, then begins reading. Sam listens intently, but his eyes start slipping closed soon enough, and as if the nap in the car didn't count at all, just like that he's asleep again. This time, Dean doesn't join him; for the time that Sam's sleeping, he spends on the Internet, trying his best to avoid falling back to the usual routine of checking around the news sites for cases and more. His eyes keep turning back towards Sam, however - the round bump of his curled up body underneath the blanket, the steady rise and fall of his side and the way he's clutching his pillow with his small fists. His lips are parted and sometimes seem to form words in his sleep, rounding around lost little syllables or half-gasping breaths, but it doesn't seem like a nightmare, so Dean doesn't stir him before he's slept a good forty minutes.

"Hey, buddy," Dean calls quietly as he strokes Sam's shoulder and side to wake him up, "This time we won't lose the whole night's sleep to an overly long nap, alright?"

It takes a while for Sam to open his eyes, but once he does, he's smiling again. They look at each other quietly for a moment before Dean pats the bed and slides off of it.

"How about a walk?" he suggests.

"Alright."

 

* * *

 

They walk around between the surrounding fields, avoiding the main roads and just enjoying the open space for about forty minutes or so. Afterwards in the bunker, Sam returns in his bedroom, and when Dean checks on him a while later, he's finger-painting on his tablet with earbuds on and his iPod resting on the bed beside him. He seems into it and perfectly content as he is, so Dean leaves him again; he does the usual round of chores, washing the dishes and the laundry, and when he sits there watching the washing machine rock idly in front of him, he realises that the role of a 50s housewife seems oddly fitting for him. Uncomfortable with that idea, he sets back to Sam's room; they watch a film together, play around with some app games, and finally start preparing for bed. As they're brushing their teeth in the bathroom, Dean nudges Sam on the shoulder.

"Sleepover?" he asks with something of a crooked, gentle smile on him.

Sam nods without looking at him. He's got his toothbrush stuck as a bump in his cheek and he's staring at his image in the mirror rather vigorously, like it's a task that requires all of his concentration. Then he spits in the sink and puffs.

"I'll get my own pillow and stuff tonight," he tells Dean, and Dean nods.

"Sure thing. You're like a space heater anyway."

"You kick."

"You spread."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. All over the bed. You had your leg over me for like, half the night last night or something."

"I hate you."

"Well, you're dumb."

Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean, flushes his mouth clean with some water and hops down from his chair.  
"'s tomorrow the last day like this?" he asks then, sounding conflicted.

"Yep. Should be. Or the day after tomorrow. It's not that specific. Whenever it wears out, I guess."

"I hope it's tomorrow," Sam says, then clears his throat and rubs his palms over his t-shirt's chest, "I mean. It's not _bad_ , I just - I prefer to be big me. I don't like being useless and weak."

"You're so bad at relaxing, Sam."

"I know," Sam says and sniffs frustratedly, "It's dumb. But I mean, you wouldn't like this either."

Dean considers. He considers it longer than he ever intended, really; his eyes move over his features in the mirror for a while until he laughs a little awkwardly and pats Sam on the back, dropping his toothbrush back in its cup.

"You know, why don't you find out the next time we're playing pranks on each other. Hide that teddy inside my laundry or something."

"Ugh."

"What?"

"Cursing you on purpose seems a little... heavy," Sam tells him, eyeing him suspiciously.

Dean shrugs.  
"Hey, you tried it out, nothing bad happened. I still think it's hilarious. I'm gonna do it to you if you don't do it first."

"No, you won't," Sam grunts and turns for the door, "Or I'll kill you in your sleep."  
He has to stand on his toes to reach the handle, but he manages it.  
"Come on, let's get my stuff."

"Alright, grumpy."

 

* * *

 

Sam still looks thoughtful, concerned and uneasy even though Dean tries to read to him, and eventually the older brother simply puts down the book and catches Sam's attention instead of trying to pretend any longer that he doesn't notice the frown on him.

"What's up, buddy?" he asks, "You look - uh, distracted doesn't really cut it."

"No," Sam mumbles and readjusts, "I'm listenin', 's just - I don't know."

"Talk to me."

They watch one another for a while before Sam smiles defeatedly and curls up a little closer to Dean. He sighs, picks up the hem of Dean's shirt and starts playing around with it, and Dean can practically hear him figuring out how to put his thoughts into words.

"This has been... really nice," Sam finally says, "The things you've done with me, this reading thing, swimming, the movies... everything."

"Right. You're welcome, Sammy, it's -"

"No, I just - I want to give something back to you, but I don't know how. I feel like..."

"Like you're burdening me."

"Yeah."

"Well, look... I've tried to make it clear to you, but I guess I have to 'fess up, too," Dean chuckles wearily and drags his finger over the edge of the book, feeling its texture out as he prepares his own words, "I really like this. You know me, Sammy, you - you do. You know I... Taking care of you, 's just who I am. And in some way, you being all small again, it's given me the chance to, you know, indulge a little. I don't get to do that often because you're so damn independent, you know? You don't want to be cared for. And I get that, because that's your role, and you don't like it, the - the whole being a little brother, weak or whatever thing. You want to do your own thing and you want to do it alone."

"Well, not alone, I... still want to be brothers and everything," Sam tells him, "But - I just - I don't know how to... just... let you do those things. I feel guilty."

"I know."  
Dean waits a little before continuing.  
"I know. And that's the biggest reason we fight, I guess, me - trying to do my thing and you trying to do your thing, because even though we're brothers, and we want to be brothers, we do it differently. You don't want to burden me and I try way too hard to take care of you even though you don't really need anyone looking after you anymore."

Sam nods.

"But like this, it's been fun, hasn't it?"

He nods again, and Dean smiles. Once more he runs his fingers through Sam's soft curls and he sighs, picking up the book again.

"So," he finishes, "Whatever happens next, this has been good, and you shouldn't feel guilty about it. You gave me the chance to mom you all over again and I guess I needed that. When you grow up again, it's my turn to let you be your own guy."

A small smile grows on Sam's lips and he nods for the third time, this time in a rather relieved manner.  
"So you don't - you really don't mind?"

"Not at all, little bro. Do you need me to spell it out for you or can we keep reading?" Dean chuckles back at him, bounching the tip of his nose with his thumb.

Sam wipes his palm across it as if to chase away the feeling of Dean's touch on him, then he nods.  
"Keep reading," he says and rests his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes, "I wanna know what happens next."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, something's changed. Dean opens his eyes into the growing glow just like the morning before, but next to him sleeps a man much bigger than the small boy who fell asleep there. He watches Sam breathe easy, lips parted and pointy nose digging into his pillow with a halo of dark brown hair surrounding his head and he chuckles to himself, feeling at once happy and sad that the tiny adventure they stumbled upon has ended. Unthinking, he strokes Sam's face, and immediately afterwards he feels a little weird about it - it isn't exactly allowed anymore. They're big again, and if Sam was awake, he'd slap Dean's hand away for even attempting to do what he just did.

Dean sighs, pulling himself up from the bed as carefully as he can: one thing he knows about big Sam is that he's a very light sleeper, trained by decades of hunting just like Dean himself. But he's good at escaping Sam - as a brother, he's been trained to sneak around Sam even better than he's been trained to sneak around monsters. So he heads up to the kitchen and does his own thing for one more morning, preparing coffees and bacon for two. He finds a tray from somewhere way deep in their unused cupboards of things the Men of Letters before them left behind, and he packs all the breakfast on it. As he balances it all through the corridor back to his bedroom, he realises how much he liked having a small kid bouncing after him wherever he went. Another small sigh escapes him and he has to prepare himself in front of his bedroom door before entering.

He slips in and sits back on the bed: the weight shifting stirs Sam up, and the man squints at him in the soft golden light illuminating the room. Dean smiles at him and shrugs, placing the tray between them.

"Thought we could finish up the book before moving on," he admits a little timidly, "You know - take turns reading while we eat. What do you say?"

Sam rubs at his eyes as he lifts himself into a sitting position. He reaches for his cup of coffee and sips it before speaking, his eyes focusing for a while on his own big hands. Dean notices him shiver before he finally looks up and smiles.

"Sure," he says in a voice that speaks of a whole burden of thoughts still in the process of getting organized in the background, "I - think we should do that, yeah."

At least it'll give him time to think it all through before they have to pretend they're both over it and ready to face whatever comes next, Dean figures. His smile trembles a little as he pulls the book up and places it on the bed.

"I go first, right?" he asks to be sure.

They look each other in the eye and the smile that Sam gives him is relieved and a little tired still, like this whole thing has eaten up a lot more of his energy than either of them anticipated. He nods, relieved, and takes another mouthful out of his cup before piercing a strip of bacon with his fork.

"It was a hard day's run," Dean begins with the taste of fresh coffee and a sense of nostalgy lingering over his tongue upon every syllable, "up the Canon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of feet deep, and over the great Chilcoot Divide, which stands between the salt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely North..."

 


End file.
